The Winged Man's Burden (part one of Secrets and Lies)
by smaugholmeswatson
Summary: Winglock. Sherlock's whole life revolves around keeping secrets, including how he is really a winged human, a genetic mutation feared by the general population and persecuted by Hunters who wish to destroy him. But Sherlock isn't the only one keeping secrets and events quickly spiral out of control as others reveal their true selves but the most shocking revelation is still to come
1. Reichenbach

**Chapter 1: Reichenbach**

I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the hardest thing I will ever have to . I realise that what I am about to do will utterly change the life I have built for myself but the wheels are already in motion and I am unable to stop it. I shiver runs through me, it is cold up here beneath the lifeless grey sky. Behind me on the wide expanse of the roof of St Bart's hospital lies the broken, bloody body of Moriarty, grey brain matter splattered across the concrete. A wave of nasua sweeps through me and I look away, swallowing hard and close my eyes for a moment. At this precise moment elsewhere in London John has probably come to the realisation that there is actually nothing the matter with Mrs Huson and is rushing back here as fast as London traffic will allow him.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. The whole time Moriarty had been playing with me like a cat with a mouse and I, foolishly, had allowed myself to be played with, believing all the while that I could somehow find a way out. I had spectacularly failed and now have no choice but to fulfill Moriarty's final wish and jump. My fists clench and I fight against the fierce rage which rises without warning within me as I remember what the consulting criminal had told me

"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There's no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump."  
"As long as I'm alive you can save your friends. You've got a way out."

My anger wanes a little and a strained laugh escapes me. Poor Moriarty. He had shot himself thinking that I would have to kill myself, not realizing I had one more ace up my sleeve. My pocket begins to vibrant and I reach in to pull out my phone. A flashing light indicates that I have a message and I swipe across the screen to read it.

_"We're ready. - MH" _

For a moment I allow myself the luxury of a small smile but it quickly fades when an image of John creeps into my head. I squeeze my eyes shut with a quiet groan. Can I really do this to John? From down on the street I hear the sound of an engine and look down to find a solitary taxi pulling to a stop to let an all too familiar person wearing a black jacket. I wait, having worked out what he is most likely to do next. On cue my phone starts to ring. My hands shake when I answer it.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asks, sounding frantic. He starts walking forward towards the front door of the hospital. Panic runs through me.

"No" I cry. Instantly John stops. "Now turn around and walk back the way you came." John remain silent and I fear that he will stubbornly continue to come towards the hospital. To my relief however he back away with obvious reluctance to his original spot. I take a deep breath to steady myself. Here comes the part I have been dreading the most. "Look up, I'm on the rooftop."

John inhales sharply and I see him crane his neck up. I'm grateful for the fact I am too far away to see his facial expression. "Shit." He swear softly. "What's going on?" He demands, sounding confused.

Good, he'd taken the bait. Now all I have to do is convince him that all the lies Moriarty told about me were real and that I really am a fake. "I wanted to apologize to you... everything Moriarty said about is true." My throat closes and I find myself unable to swallow probably. "Please forgive me." I say, struggling to keep my voice from shaking.

John's voice is hurt when he speaks again. "Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake. The newspapers have been right all along. I want you to tell everybody, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, that I created Moriarty." Tears are now running freely down my face, adding a convincing choked quality to my voice. John is never going to forgive me for this and I can't say I blame him. I would hate him if he did the same to me

"Shut up." growls John. "Just shut up. How can you say you're a fake. When I first met you you knew all about my sister just from my phone. I was amazing, remember?" He says pleadingly.

I hang my head. "Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

I breath in deeply and close my eyes. knuckling them with the ball of my hands. I can tell that John isn't entirely convinced which means I need to try harder because John can never learn my secret; he would reject me otherwise. "I researched everything about you before we met so I could impress you. Everything, my deductions, my knowledge is all just a magic trick." John curses loudly and goes to take a step forward. "No don't move, stay exactly where you are!" I cry.

John freezes and even though we are far apart I can tell he is scared of what I might do. A quiet sob escapes me and before I can register what I am doing I have stretched out my hand towards him. John raises his hand in response. "Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" It is becoming difficult to remain in control of my emotions and I realize that if I don't end this soon I may very well confess everything to John. "This phone call, its my note. Thats what people do don't they? Leave a note?"

"Sherlock? I don't understand. Leave a note when?" John asks. Though he appears to sound confused I can detect a faint hint of dawning realization in his voice.

"Goodbye John." I murmur softly before tossing my phone behind me. I hear it shatter and break. There is no way I can back out now, at least no way that won't end with me exposing my greatest secret.

Dimly, as though from a great distance I hear John cry out. "SHERLOCK!" Closing my eyes I stand on tiptoe on the very edge of the roof and stare down at the pavement below. There are more people there now, all of them watching me in shock and horror. Then I lean forward and let myself fall, safe in the knowledge that the plan I made with Mycroft is already springing into action. The pavement rapidly approaches; I can't put it off any longer. Flexing my shoulders I wince a little when a pair of large white wings expand and tear through the material of my coat as though it was paper. I spread them out and gently flap them, instantly slowing my fall so I float gently down rather than smacking into the hard concrete. The moment I touch the ground Mycroft's team leaps into action applying fake blood while I slip a small rubber ball beneath my arm pit to temporarily stop my pulse. I stagger and several pairs of hands lower me carefully to the pavement, making sure to tuck my wings out of sight and conceal the rip in the back of my coat.

Footsteps hurry in my direction before a terrible heart wrenching cry tore through the air as John lays eyes on what he believe to be my broken, dead body. Through open, staring eyes I am forced to helplessly watch as John rushes over, Mycroft's team holding him back long enough to allow me to relax the remaining tension from my body.

"Let me through, he's my friend." John chokes back sobs as he struggles against the hands holding him back. With a final violent effect he succeeds in breaking their hold and falls to his knees beside me, no seeming to care about the 'blood' soaking into his jeans. He lets out a moan of pain. "No, no Sherlock! Please no!" He cries, tears streaming down his face which is twisted into an expression of utter agony. Grabbing my wrist he checks for a pulse and of course finds nothing thanks to my little trick. He lets out a quiet whimper and goes limp, allowing himself to be dragged away.

I sigh quietly. I'd known my 'death' would affect John deeply but I had never though it would destroy him. As he was lead away I caught a glimpse of his face and was shocked by the vacant look I saw there. From nearby I hear the sound of rattling wings as a medical trolley is positioned beside me and I am lifted onto it before being taken away. The last thing I see before turning the corner into St Bart's ambulance bay is John standing apart from the others with a confused broken expression on his face. The doors close behind me. The instant the coast is clear the ball is removed from beneath my armpit and I am I left while my pulse settles back to normal. Once I feel my strength has returned I sit up on the trolley and make to stand up. Instead a wave of crushing sadness washes over me and all I can do is bury my head in my hands with a quiet sob. A hand touches my shoulder and I slowly lift my head. "Mycroft." I say quietly in greeting.

My brother gives me a sad smile in response. "You did it Sherlock, you convinced John." He paused, lowering his gaze to the floor. "I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault brother. Moriarty is the one we should blame." I say, absentmindedly brushing at the dried fake blood that is beginning to flake away. I see Mycroft wince and I narrow my eyes. "What is it?"

Mycroft swallows nervously. "Moriarty. When my men went up to the roof to retrieve his body they found nothing but a handful of black feathers." He explains, unable to meet my eye the whole time.

I swear under my breath. Damn Moriarty. I had always suspected he could be like me but had never pursued that line of inquiry lest I be disappointed or it turned out to be a trick. Knowing he could still be alive complicated everything. Instead of demolishing his remaining network I would now have to search for him and take him down on top. My mind made up I leap to my feet, the sudden movement making Mycroft jump. I hold out my hand to him. "Farewell brother, I'll keep in touch." I say at the same time as shaking out my cramped wings.

Mycroft frowned. "What are you doing Sherlock? You said you'd wait a few days before setting off."

Gently pushing him aside I make my way towards the door leading to the outside world. "Change of plans. Now I need to find Moriarty."

Mycroft opens his mouth but then stops, knowing there is nothing he can say that will change my mind. Silently he watches my push open the doors and stand on the street for a moment, savoring the slight breeze blowing through my feathers. I give him a small wave despite the tears running down my cheeks and bring my wings down, propelling myself into the air. My heart pounds at the freeing sensation of suddenly not being subject to the laws of gravity but the joy is dampened slightly by the knowledge that I would not be returning to London for a while. Turning my back on the city I disappear into the clouds and out of Mycroft's line of sight.


	2. Three Years Later

**Warning: This chapter contains scenes of torture and violence which is bad if you are squeamish like me. I happened to be eating a sandwich as I was writing this and felt queasy, so much so that I had to stop writing and come back to this chapter the next day. If you don't like stuff like that either skip this chapter (not recommeded because you will miss lots of importance stuff) or don't read it (again not recommended). Hope you enjoy!**

'Well this hadn't gone the way I'd planned I think as I gaze over at the bloody form of Moriarty who, like me, is hanging from two chains attached around his wrists. He sees me looking and shoots a mocking smile in my direction, as though trying to convince me that torture was routine for him. He didn't convince me, I had heard enough of his screaming over the past two years to know he was suffering just as much as I was.

I had set out from London with a plan to demolish his network in order to flush him out of hiding but had actually only succeeded in getting myself captured by a sciencetist who apparently was fascinated by winged humans and wanted to find out why only certain people were born with them. Cue months of blood and DNA tests before he had grown bored and thought his time better put to use by experimenting how much pain we could take so Hunters can kill winged humans more easily. I let out a quiet groan. It is painful to think that John will live out his life believing me to be dead while I was a sciencetist's play thing. I shift a little, trying to prevent the chains from cutting into my wrists so much, and cry out when the movement stretches the open wound newly sliced into my back. My train of thought is disrupted by a low chuckle from Moriarty.

"You're thinking about John Watson aren't you?" He asks, sounding oddly gleefull for someone who has just had white hot pokers pressed against his skin.

I shook my head and winced when the motion again jolted my aching wings which were peppered with holes. "No, of course not."

Moriarty ran his tongue slowly across his top lip. "Oh yes you are. You always get that pathetic soppy expression when you're thinking about him." He pauses. "You know, I liked him. He had spirit and he obviously had a good effect on you since you are so emotional now." He laughs when I glare at him. "Come now Sherlock, don't be like that, I've heard your screams just as much as you've heard mine."

I grit my teeth, hating Moriarty at the moment. Thanks to him the last time I saw John he was a broken shadow of his former self and unless he's got on with his life and forgotten about me, which is the most likely outcome, he is probably still the same. "Oh go away Moriarty, just because we are strung up in the same room together doesn't mean I have come to like you any more." I roll my eyes when he puts on a mock hurt expression. "Or are you forgetting that you basically manipulated me into jumping off the roof of a building."

Moriarty makes a quiet sound of derision. "Well that didn't exactly work very well did it? Cushioning your fall with your wings is just cheating."

"Oh and using powers of self healing to repair a gunshot to the head isn't? Clever idea by the way to shoot yourself in a part of a brain that you don't require to live or function, very clever." I say grudgingly, giving credit where it was due. "Why did you do it Moriarty?" I ask, giving voice to the question I have been avoiding for all these years we have been imprisoned together.

Moriarty smirks and gingerly, gently gives his wings a little flutter. "Because I had rumours that the great Sherlock Holmes was hiding something, a secret that not even dear John seemed to know about when I asked him. Of course upon digging deeper I discovered that there was something not quite right you, especially when I received a envelope full of feathers that apparently had been left behind at a crime scene you visited. It was then that the thought began to grow that maybe, just maybe I had found another human just like me." He says before yawning. "Damn I'm tired but it's so hard to sleep strung up like this."

I gape at Moriarty. "Let me get this straight you threatened my friends and manipulated me into leaping off a roof just so you could confirm a hunch you had that I possible could be a winged human. Why didn't you ask when you came to my flat?"

Moriarty hangs his head. "I don't know. I suppose its because I believed I had to keep up my reputation as the worlds only consulting criminal by managing what no one else ever had; destroying the great Sherlock Holmes."

I snort and glance around the tiny cell that now apparently is our home. "Oh yeah and how is that working out for you?" I ask sarcastically. I am surprised when Moriarty winces and I see sadness flash across his face.

"There's no need to be like that Sherlock. I think I'm paying enough for it as it is, don't you think?" Moriarty says. I go to reply but before I can say anything the door to our cramped little cell opens to allow a tall blond man wearing a blood stained lab coat to enter the room.

I tense, knowing what is going to come next, and Moriarty snarls. The sciencetist gives Moriarty a cursorary glance before heading over towards me. My heart skips a beat when I see he has a small dagger. His eyes are cold and emotionless as he slowly stalks towards me with a grin. He circles me, reaching out a hand to inspect the neat holes he punched through my wings yesterday. They have already begun to knit closed but I get the feeling they won't be allowed to heal completely. He comes back to stand in front of me and in a movment so swift I barely see it plunges the dagger into the flesh above my heart. I cry out and he applies more pressure so the dagger gradually sinks in closer to my heart.

"I wonder." muses the sciencetist. "What will happen if I cut out your heart. A winged human's ability to heal is good but would you be able to heal something like that." He says, his voice hinting of the agony that is to come. "Lets find out."

A shudder runs through me. The sciencetist tightens his grip on the dagger and brings it sharply downwards, slicing through the skin down to the muscle. Blood begins to pump from the wound, running over the scienctist's hand. He smiles and digs the blade in a little further. The pain, a white hot wave crashing through me, is almost overwhelming with small black spots dancing in my vision. My breathing is ragged and I have to bite my lip to prevent myself from screaming. He continues cutting, exposing my ribs and swaps the dagger for a bone cutting device usually found in operating theatres from a trolley to his right. Throughout the whole thing Moriarty stares blankly over my shoulder but the slight green tinge around the edge of his face shows he isn't totally immune to the sweet, sickly smel of blood that now fills the room.

The scienctist rests the bone cutter against my exposed ribs making a scream of pain escape through my teeth. By now an ordinary human would have bled out but my self healing ability was knitting me back together as fast as he was cutting me open, something that was at this precise moment both a blessing and a curse. "This might hurt a little." He gloats with his face up against mine. Before he can make the first incision however the door is flung open. The scienctist jerks back in the surprise, the movement tightening the bone cutter so it slices through my rib with a wet crunching sound. My scream is so loud my throat feels raw once it has finally died away. There is a gunshot and the scienctist collapses in a spray of blood as a bullet lodges itself in his brain.

I must black out for a second because when I open my eyes again Lestrade is kneeling over me as he carefully lays a sterilised sheet over my open wound. He looks faintly sick but puts on a brave face when he sees that I am conscious. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" He asks softly.

"Lestrade, what are you doing here?" I gasp out, feeling something trickle from the corner of my mouth. Lestrade reaches forward to wipe it away and his fingers comes away covered with blood.

"Mycroft told me to follow you when you left London to make sure you stayed out of trouble. We lost you for a while but then heard news through our Hunter double agent that you had been captured by the scienctist." He stops, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry we didn't get here sooner. The doctor who examined you reassured me that you were already healing but its still really bad."

A wave of dizziness floods through me and I let out a quiet gasp. "Damn do I need a good nights sleep." I laugh. My flicker and almost close.

Lestrade lays a gentle hand on my forehead. "Sleep then Sherlock. I won't allow anything to happen to you." He says. I smile at him gratefully before closing my eyes and allowing the darkness to carry me away. After that there is only silence and eerie dreams filled with the sound of my own screams.


	3. Mycroft's secret

I awake suddenly with a loud gasp, my hands flying to my chest. The wound has almost completly healed with only a livid red scar to show it was ever there. I stare round at my surroundings, expecting the sterile environment of a hospital but instead find myself in familiar surroundings. I glance over to my right and see the Periodic table I'd framed and hung on the wall when John and I had first moved in and my dressing gown hanging on the back of the door. I breathe a sigh of relief because I know from first hand experience how difficult it is to explain to a medical professional that you don't need medication and are perfectly cabable of healing yourself without your help. It never went down particulary well and was glad Lestrade had simply brought me home. I become aware of soft breathing to my left and turn my head to find Lestrade slumped in a hard back chair fast asleep. I smile affectionatly and reach out to gently shake him.

"Whah?" He murmurs as he struggles awake and knuckles the sleep from his eyes. "Oh Sherlock." He says when his eyes finally focus. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"

I shrug, the movement hardly hurting. "Almost healed thank-you. How long have I been asleep?" I ask, knowing the answer will at the most stretch to a couple of days.

There is a bright glint in his eye when he next speaks. "A week and a half Sleeping Beauty. I was beginning to wonder if you would sleep until Christmas." He jokes. There is something behind all the lightness and I examine him closer, noticing dark shadows under his eyes like he hasn't been sleeping. He sees him looking and suddenly is unable to meet my eye. "I was worried." He protests with a wide yawn. "Anyway I haven't been here the whole time." He continues with a sly smile. Evidently he has something up his sleeve. "I'll be right back." It takes him quite a effort to lever himself from the chair, still half asleep as he is, and exits the room.

After a few minutes I hear a tentative knock on the door before Lestrade pokes his head round the door. "Now Sherlock, this be a little bit of a shock for you and after everything you've been through it might be a bit much so I'll return in about half an hour." He says. He disappears and I hear him address whoever is standing beside him. "Try not to punch him, he's still recovering from being tortured for three years and recently having his chest sliced open because a manical sciencetist wanted to cut out his heart. Be nice alright?" I also hear a familar voice reply to him . "I can't make any promises but I really will try."

My heart skips a beat. Can it really be him? Has he forgiven me for what I did? These question are churning in my head when the door is pushed open wide enough to allow John to enter the room. He doesn't even glance in my direction and calmly makes his way around the bed to the chair vacated by Lestrade. Outside the room I hear Lestrade's footsteps retreating into the living room. Even though he said half an hour I reckon that as soon as he sits down he'll fall asleep for the rest of the day. Seconds pass and still John doesn't look at me or say anything. "John?" I say hesistantly, afraid of how he is going to react.

He takes a deep breath and slowly turns to me. His eyes are full of hurt. "Mycroft told me everything, about how you jumped to prevent Moriarty from killing me, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade." He says softly. I go to reply but he waves a hand to cut me off. "But I don't care about that Sherlock. What I want to know is why didn't you ever tell me you were a winged human? I would have understood."

That is what all normal humans say when they discover there best friend is a winged human but you can garentee that the majority of them later freak out and realise they can't actually deal with it. "How can you understand? You have no idea what it is like to keep a secret, knowing that if you ever reveal it to the world people will depise and reject you. I mean look at how the newspaper react when a winged human is spotted." I stop for a moment to compose myself. "I didn't want to see revulsion in your eyes John, I didn't want you to reject me."

John's hands twist together in his lap. "I never would have rejected you Sherlock."

"But how can you know that? How would you have felt if one day I walked up to you and said, 'oh by the way John I have been lying to you since I first met you. I am actually a winged human.'" I take a deep breath. "Anyway, why aren't you angry at me? I let you believe I was committed suicide, I saw your face."

An empty, shocked expression settles over John's face. "You saw that? Oh god Sherlock, that must have been so painful." He reaches towards me and I flinch back, expecting a harsh blow. Instead I feel a gentle hand touch my cheek and I opened my eyes to find John gazing at me intently. "Orginally when Lestrade told me you had faked your death I was angry but eventually I agreed to see you. Back then the wound in your chest was still terrible and...and." John's voice breaks a little. "I could see your heart beating Sherlock. After seeing you that vunerable I couldn't stay mad at you when I realised how close you had come to dying."

I wince. "I didn't want you to see that." I watch him for a moment, aware of how his hands are slightly shaking. I reach out and lay my hands over his. "John, I am so sorry for all the hurt and distress I have caused you."

John gives me a shaky smile. "Its fine Sherlock, really it is. You've been asleep for ages and I imagine you are feeling rather hungry now." He says, completly changing the subject. He waits for me to nod. "Do you feel well enough to stand or should I bring something to you?"

I shake my head and sit up. John offers me his hand but I ignore it in favour of doing it myself. For a moment I stand there wobbling, John beside him the whole time waiting to steady me, but then I find my balance and walk slowly from the room. As we pass by the mirror in the hallway I pause to examine myself in it. To my relief the puncture marks in my wings have gone, leaving them white and spotless once more, and most of the other cuts and scraps have disappeared as well. Apart from the wings I almost look like a normal human again.

"Good to see you looking so much better." Comes a lilting voice from behind me. I turn and there, sitting on the sofa in one of my dressing gowns, is Moriarty who is also looking better than the last time I saw him. I frown at me and he smiles at my confusion. "John been letting me stay here until the Hunters stop looking for us." He lazily stretches and the tip of one of his wings, unlike mine the feathers are black, clips a lamp sitting on a small table. The lamp wobbles on the edge for a moment before falling to the floor and smashing. Moriarty glances over at it. "Sorry." He says, genuinly sounding apologetic.

I smile at him and carry on into the kitchen where John is feeding slices of bread into the toaster. Leaning against the worktop I watch my friend for a moment. "You know I am surprised you allowed Moriarty to stay after he manipulated me into jumping off a roof."

John shrugs. "I know but I couldn't let him be killed by Hunters knowing that he was a winged human like you. I imagine you wouldn't have thanked me."

To my surprise I realise he is right, after being tortured together I feel an odd kinship towards the consulting criminal. That and the fact he is also a winged human like me. I become aware of someone standing in the doorway and glance over to find Moriarty standing there. He gives me a small smile when he sees me looking and heads over to sit down at the table. A few years ago this scene would have felt totally wrong but now it just feels, maybe not right, but comfortable at least.

Eventually the toast pops and the three of us sit down to eat. About halfway through Mrs Hudson bustles into the room, grinning widely when she sees that I am up and about, and announces that we have a visitor. I look over at John but he shrugs, having no more clue about the identity of the person than me. I look over at Mrs Hudson again and notice she is afraid of our visitor. I go to ask her what is wrong but at that moment Mycroft appears in the doorway with a crossbow held loosely in his hands. "Thankyou Mrs Hudson you can go." She lets out a small squeak and hurries out the door. Moriarty and I leap to our feet, both of us readying ourselves for a fight.

"Whats going on?" John demands, slowly standing and looking round for a weapon he can use. It's pretty pointless since any decent Hunter would have been able to disarm him in a matter of seconds.

To my surprise Mycroft smiles sadly round at the three of us. "I'm so sorry Sherlock but I can't disobey my leader's order." He says in a heavy voice.

Moriarty hisses and holds his wings in a typical threatening pose. "Why didn't you tell me your brother was one of them?" He snaps, his head whipping round to face me.

"I didn't tell you because I didn't bloody know." I shout back before rounding angrily on my brother. "What the hell is going on here Mycroft?"

Mycroft is unable to meet my eye when he replies. "The scienctist who captured you was supposed to kill you but instead kept you alive in order to satisfy his own curiosity." He pauses for a moment. "I really am sorry Sherlock." He says, raising the crossbow so it is pointing at my heart. John goes to step forward but I hold out a hand to stop him. Mycroft looks at him for a moment as though hesistating but then pulls the trigger.

I hear John cry out and Moriarty bellow. A heavy weight strikes me in the side and I go flying backward, slamming my head against the wall with a crack before everything goes dark.


	4. John's secret

My eyes blink open and I groan when pain lances through my head. I close my eyes again for a moment before everything comes flooding back to me. John accepting me, Mycroft being a Hunter... Oh crap, my eyes flew open. I am totally confused because Mycroft had been pointing the cross bow at my heart and by rights I should be dead, Hunter's never miss their target. Slowly, aware of the pain in my head, I sit up and take in my surroundings. At first everything appears to be normal but then my gaze fell on Moriarty. He is sprawled on the floor beside the table flat on his back but it is the crossbow bolt sunk in his chest that my eyes fix on. Well, that explains why I hadn't died. I crawl towards him and gently touch two fingers to his neck to check for a pulse. His hand shoots out and grabs my wrists. His eyes flicker open, struggling to focus on me.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry." He gasps, his voice barely above a whisper. "Can you forgive me for everything?"

Blood pools arounds the hole in his chest and oozes onto the floor. I touch a hand to it, trying to stem the flow. "I already forgave you Moriarty when we were being totured together. Why did you jump in front of me?" I ask, wishing to understand why my former arch-nemesis had saved me.

Moriarty coughs and his grey eyes grow dim. "I wanted to make up for everything I've done. I saw John straight after you 'jumped', he was so broken and I never forgave myself for it." His voice trails off into a wet gurgle and all the tension went from his muscles as the light dimmed completely from his eyes.

I sit back on my heels. I am surprised to discover that I actually feel sad he's gone and supress a loud sob. I feel something trickling down my cheeks and my hands come away wet with tears. The pain in my head increases as confused thoughts tumble in my head and sorrow is replaced with anger. How could my own brother be a Hunter without me ever realising and why wait this long before trying to kill me? I bury my head in my hands with a quiet groan. After a few moments I hear the sound of a throat being quietly cleared and look round to find John standing in the doorway, a very distressed Lestrade standing beside him. I wince, I had forgotten he was asleep in the next room. Right now he must be feeling awful. I stood and lay a hand on his shoulder in an attmept to comfort him. He gives me a sad smile before returning to staring at the ground. I look away, hating myself for what I am going to have to do. With Mycroft after me I shall have to leave to keep John out of the line of fire. One person too many had already died for me. I take a deep breath.

"I can't stay here, not with Mycroft out to kill me. You know that don't you?" I ask, imploring silently for John to understand what I am trying to say.

John hangs his head. "Lestrade, would you go into the next room for a moment please?" He waits until Lestrade walks away before turning to me. "Sherlock before you made any sudden decisions there is something you should know." He says, his voice serious.

I walk towards me, my hands outstretched and worry flares through me. "John, what's wrong?" I ask, feeling panicked.

John sighs and looks pained. In a single smooth movement he shrugged off his shirt, revealing a pair of white wings which are held down by a strap. My eyes widen. Okay, what? I am really starting to find this totally confusing and my brain is no longer processing what it is seeing. John reaches up to undo the strap, freeing his wings which unfurl behind him from where he has been keeping them concealed. I am starting to wonder now just how many people are keeping secrets from me, who knew maybe Lestrade was a ninja in his spare time. I continue to stare at John who shifts uncomfortably.

"Sherlock, you're freaking me out now. Please say something." He says, wringing his hands together and his brown eyes worried.

I reach forward and gently stroke the feathers on one wing and it twitches under my touch. I am also able to feel the warmth radiating off them. Well they were definitly real alright. "You are just like me." I say with a frown. "How have you managed to keep this a secret?"

John smiles. "Just like how you managed to keep your wings a secret from me." He says with a laugh. "Anyway I didn't know how you would react."

I let out a strained laugh. "You didn't know how I would react? I say increduously. "How about me? I was afraid you would reject me and I would forced to live alone, cowering in the shadows for the rest of my life." A thought struck me. "Where did Mycroft go?"

John shrugs and go to reply. He is interrupted however by footsteps and loud shouting coming from downstairs. The two of us exchange a panicked look. "We need to go." John gasps, looking around for a way out. He looks at the window, a dawning realisation coming over his face, and hurries over to it. He easily shoulders it open and wiggles out, balancing carefully upon the narrow window sill. He looks expectantly back at me and I follow him out, spreading out my wings for balance. Together the two of us stand high above the street watching the cars going past. Eventually some passersby spot us and I realise its times we ere going. "Ready?" I say to John. He nods in reply.

Then together the two of us beat our wings and flew up into the cloudless blue sky, just as eight Hunters lead by Mycroft burst through the dor into the flat. Mycroft rushed to the window, craning his neck upward to catch a final glimpse of John and his brother disappear above the rooftops above London. He drew back. "Turns out John is a winged human too." Mycroft explained.

One of the other Hunters throws his sword down in irritation. "Damn it, we'll never catch them now." He snaps angrily.

Mycroft turns to him and winks. "Oh we will. I took the courtesy of giving a tracking device to Lestrade so he could place it in Sherlock's shirt pocket during the night." He says as he pulls out his phone and starts up an app. A flashing red dot appears on the screen. He watches it for a moment before flying back into action. "The two of them are headed for Scotland Yard. The idiots! Contact the team there and tell them to be ready for when they arrive."

The Hunter's in the room rush out followed by the more sedate Mycroft who felt a momentary sadness settle over him. He hated having to hunt his brother, it wasn't his fault he'd always been insanly jealous of Sherlock. He sighs and walks down the stairs, roughly pushing Mrs Hudson to one side when she got in his way.

"Leave him alone. He's your own brother!" She shouts.

Mycroft ignores her and carries on going. He had winged humans to hunt.


	5. Scotland Yard

When we arrive at Scotland Yard it takes me a while to remember which window leads to Lestrade's office. Usually I can find such information quickly but today, what with everything that has happened, I am finding it difficult to focus. Eventually I find the right window and knock to get Lestrade's attention. He jumps a little at the sound and spins round in his chair, allowing me a glimpse of unkempt grey hair and black shadows beneath his eyes. Ever since he rescued me from the scienctist he has been working non stop to find the remaining Hunters still at large in London. Leaning over he opens the window wide and steps aside so John and I are able to enter. Normally he would have a cheerful greeting ready but today he is downcast, unable to meet my eye. I watch him intently. Something is going on but until I can figure out what it is I suppose I should give him the benifit of the doubt.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. He stares at John who shifts uncomfortably under his gaze and pulls his wings tight against his back.

Breathing heavily I slump against the wall. I may heal fast but I am still feeling the effects of having my chest sliced open, that and I haven't really slept for an entire night in three years. I stare intently at Lestrade to gage his reaction to what I am about to say. "Mycroft is a Hunter." I say quietly. Lestrade's reaction surprises me. I expect him to be surprised by the revelation but instead he nods as though he already knows. I notice John shoot him a puzzled look, even with his poor skills of observation he knows that something is going on. I decide to push Lestrade a little further. "This morning about an hour or so ago Mycroft burst into the flat and tried to kill me. He would have succeeded too if it hadn't been for Moriarty jumping in front of me and taking the bolt through his chest."

Lestrade's head jerks round and I see a shocked expression in his eyes. "What? Moriarty's dead?" He stutters, open mouthed. "Mycroft didn't mention that." He continues before he winces, realising what he has just let slip.

John takes a step towards him and I hold out an arm to stop him. He frowns at me, not understanding why I have stopped him, but slowly backs up to where he was standing before. With a sigh he stares out of the window. Satisfied he won't suddenly rush forward I turn to Lestrade who looks at me with frightened eyes. "Greg, you're working for my brother aren't you?" Lestrade seems startled by my proper use of his name since usually I delibratly use another just to annoy him. This time though I am being deadly serious. Behind me John hisses and slams his fist against the glass, causing a crack to appear. "Why Greg? How can you work with the Hunters when two of your friends are winged humans?" I demand angrily.

Lestrade sighs and hangs his head. "I had no choice." John gives a snort of disbeilef but he ignores him and carries on explaining. "Mycroft, the Hunters, threatened my family; my daughter Sherlock. They said that if I didn't co-operate they would kill her." He says, his voice nearing a sob. He sits on the edge of his desk and buries his head in his hands.

I hear a faint rustling of wings and glance behind me to see John shifting from foot to foot. He notices I am watching him and gives me a small smile tinged with mistrust. Obviously it is going to take a lot for him to forgive Lestrade for effectivly betraying us. "You should have said something." He says, glaring at Lestrade. "We would have tried to help you."

Lestrade shakes his head. "Its too late Hunters are already on their way and its all my fault. I'm so sorry Sherlock." He cries.

I turn away from him to the window and see seven or eight people stalking towards Scotland Yard. I sigh loudly. John glances over at me, concerned. "The Hunters are here." I say in answer to his questioning look. He looks down, spots the Hunters and swears out loud. I spin on my heel and pace towards the door. I stop with my hand on the handle and look over my shoulder at Lestrade. "Greg, is there a back door we can use?" I ask, providing him with a chance to try and redeem himself.

He stares at me for a moment until the sound of gunshots from downstairs brings him back to his senses. He shakes his head a few times as though coming out oif a daze before taking charge. "This way, follow me." He commands. "And just to let you know a number of my officers are practising Hunters. If we come across them I won't be able to protect you." I nod to show I understand and guesture for John to come. He does, and the three of us slip out of Lestrade's office and down the corridor.

The route Lestrade takes us, judging by the dust and piles of cardboard boxes stacked against the wall, is rarely used meaning that we don't run into anyone. Well until we get to the back stairs anyway. As soon as we begin to climb down them I hear the sound of voices echoing up from below. I grit my teeth, Mycroft is among them. All I want to do is march down there and confront him but I know if I do I will only succeed in getting myself killed. Absorbed as I am in my thoughts I don't notice Lestrade has stopped until I walk into his back and stumble back a few steps. He stands at the top of the next flight of stairs, gun in hand, and listening intently to the voices. He motions for John and I to back up. Silence falls, broken only by the voices from below. John let out a quiet snarl that was loud enough to cause Lestrade to fix him with a reproachful stare. He mouths a silent apology in reply. Then they waited.

It is only a matter of minutes before Mycroft and the Hunters turn the corner. They seem surprised to see Lestrade and Mycroft walks towards him with his hands up in surrender. "What are you doing Greg? Please don't tell me you are actually feeling sorry for those creatures?" He says with an incredulous laugh as though the very idea is ridiculous to him.

I see Lestrade tense and his hand tightens on the gun. "I can't let you pass Mycroft, I'm sorry. John and Sherlock are my friends." He says, almost pleads.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Dear me Greg I am disappointed in you. Guess I'll be paying a little visit to your family later this evening..." A smirk creeps onto his face.

Before I can step in to defend Lestrade he has already taken matters into his own hands, shooting the three Hunters on the stairs behind Mycroft before turning his gun on him. Mycroft's face turns white. Now I do step forward, motioning for Lestrade not to shoot my brother just yet. He nods reluctantly and lowers the gun a little so it is no longer aimed directly at Mycroft's heart. "What do you have to say for yourself Brother?" I demand. "What reason do you have for being a Hunter and trying to kill me?"

Mycroft's face distorts with disgust. "My reason is simple. You and your little sidekick are unnatural creatures who shouldn't exist." He hisses. "Creatures who should be wiped from the face of the earth."

It takes everything in me not to punch my brother at this particular moment. Instead I breathe in deeply, regaining control of my emotions. "If I am so disgusting to you why did you help me fake my death?" I ask.

Both Lestrade and John look towards Mycroft expectantly, both of them curious to know the answer to what is, in my opinion, a very good question. Mycroft closes his eyes and an expression of pain passes across his face before he reaches up, the movement causing Lestrade to tighten his grip on the gun, and unbuttons his shirt. He shrugs his off and stands like that for a moment, breathing heavily. Then he turns around. Behind me I hear John gasp but all I can do is stare at my brother. I take a step back, hardly able to believe what I am seeing.

Like me my brother has wings... but while mine are white and feathery Mycroft's are bat like and stunted, sickly looking things that are twisted in on themselves. A shudder runs through Mycroft and his wings thrash weakly in response. Revulsion churns in my stomach and I look away, seeing a glimpse of deep sadness in Mycroft's eyes as I do. "I didn't realise." I say, thinking back to our childhood and all the occasions where I had shown off my wings. Oh if only I had known that fierce jealously burned in Mycroft's heart I could have prevented him from becoming a Hunter, maybe prevented Moriarty's death. "Why didn't you tell me Mycroft? I would have understood."

Mycroft shakes his head. "I knew you would pity me and I-I didn't want that." He explains in a broken voice while he puts his shirt back on. He doesn't meet Lestrade and John's sympathetic gazes. The sympathy fades quickly when Mycroft reaches into his pocket and pulls out his own gun. Lestrade tenses but I do nothing, knowing that this bullet isn't intended for any of us. "I am so sorry Sherlock, I could never kill you. Even back at the flat I suspected Moriarty would take that crossbow bolt in order to redeem himself for all he did to you." Slowly he raises the gun, resting it against the roof of his mouth. He screws up his eyes, finger tightening on the trigger.

"MYCROFT!" The cry tears from my throat but I am too late.

The gunshot is deafening and I flinch back away from the shards of bone and fragments of brain matter splattering against the white wall. Oh god Mycroft, Mycroft, why? I slump to my knees beside the broken body of my body, unable to look away from the massive crator he blasted in his own skull. I put my hands over my mouth to hold inthe sobs that want to escape. I can't break down, not here, not in front of John. I rock back and forth, tears streaming down my face. "Mycroft, Mycroft" I murmur, despite the fact I know my brother can no longer hear me. Behind me I hear shouting but I ignore it. Even if it is more Hunters how can I care about anything anymore? Someone kneels beside me and after a moments hesistation they reach out and put an arm around my shoulders. I tense but let the arm stay there.

I am so sorry Sherlock." whispers John's voice in my ear.

I shake my head and grit my teeth. My heart feels like it is breaking into a hundred tiny peices and there is nothing I can do to prevent it from happening. Finally the pain becomes too much and a loud sob bursts from me. John hugs me closer, not seeming to care that my tears are staining his shirt. Slowly he begins to rub a hand down my back in an attempt to reassure me that everything will be alright. The futile guesture almost makes me laugh but because in an odd way it is indeed comforting I lean closer in to him and let him gently lift me to my feet and away from Mycroft's body.

"What now?" John asks Lestrade. "Do you think it's safe for us to return to the flat?"

I hear Lestrade sigh. "I honestly don't know." He says, his voice heavy with sorrow. "I'll send some of my officers who aren't Hunters in disguise to your flat to check whether the coast is clear but tonight I think it would be better if you came with me to my house."

John's grip on me shifts as he turns to look at Lestrade. "But what about your family Greg? Won't we be putting them in danger?" He is right of course and I can't believe I haven't already considered it. If going to Lestrade's will put his family in further danger I will simply refuse to go. I don't want any more blood on my hands.

"There is no-one to command the Hunters anymore. With Mycroft gone..." Lestrade doesn't need to finish his sentence for me to know what he means, that my brother was basically the one issuing the orders to the Hunter's association of London and now he's dead they are without a leader meaning his family is safe. I become aware that John is trying to lift me to my feet and straighten my legs to make it a little easier for him. Once I am upright I lean into him, still feeling too shaken to trust my own legs to keep me standing. Together the three of us walk away from the scene behind us, from Mycroft's broken body and the officers already swarming around the scene. I am not aware of any of it however for fresh tears spill from my eyes and drip down my cheeks. John hugs me closer and I allow myself a brief, weak smile. At least I still have John and now, and for the rest of my life he is all I will ever need.


	6. No More Secrets

The poem is called 'Do not stand at my grave and weep' and is by Mary Elizabeth Frye.

John was finding it difficult to believe that only a week on from the death of his brother Sherlock seemed to be completely fine and was back to solving the cases Lestrade and his team required help with. He'd been expecting for his friend to be a wreck for weeks but after they had returned home from several nights spent at Lestrade's Sherlock had instantly perked up. Naturally he was suspicious and was always on the lookout for any sign Sherlock wasn't coping as well as he was appearing to. So far he hadn't seen anything and was gradually beginning to accept that, somehow, Sherlock really had gotten over Mycroft's death so quickly.

John sighed and stared out of the window of the taxi which was taking them to Mycroft's funeral, trying to ignore Sherlock telling him how the man in his latest case hadn't committed suicide but had really been fed poison. Lately John had been finding it hard to take any interest in the cases and found himself constantly on edge, as though waiting for Hunters to attack, an attack that would now never happen.

After the news had gotten out about Hunters breaking into New Scotland Yard and 'killing' (the official story which had been fed to the newspapers) a government official all the Hunters in London had been rounded up and imprisoned with similar things going on in the rest of the United Kingdom as well, meaning winged humans were now free to walk the streets without being instantly shot or hunted down. It wasn't uncommon to walk down the streets and find yourself surrounded by people with varying different colored wings since they were legally banned from flying for fear they should get in the way of planes and jets and one day cause an accident. Most winged humans didn't overly care and were just glad they could live their lives freely.

Unlike many people John had been finding it hard to adjust to a world where having wings wasn't secret any more and he was growing tired of being asked for a photograph by those who thought winged humans to be fascinating. He shook his head, clearing it of all negative thoughts and clenched his fists. No, today he couldn't think about himself, he had to be there for Sherlock.

Eventually the taxi pulled through the gates of the cemetery and they climbed out it to be greeted by Lestrade, Anderson, who looked uncomfortable, Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper and Sally Donovan, who simply looked bored. Predictably it was raining, giving the funeral the feel of a typical scene in a movie, and Sherlock flipped up his collar to provide at least some protection from the freezing drops of water. John stayed close by his side as Sherlock walked towards the chapel, aware of the curious stares of passersby as they spotted their wings. John drew his a little closer into his back and took up position beside Sherlock, the others filing into the rows of seats behind them.

Silence fell. Even for a funeral the silence was too, well, silent for usually there is some outpouring of emotion for the deceased. For Mycroft however there was none because due to his overbearing personality and his habit of making sarcastic remarks he been exactly popular. The only person who was crying was Mrs Hudson and that was only because she disliked people dying and funerals in general. At the front of the chapel the coffin sat on the little motorized platform that would disappear behind a tasteful set of curtains at the end of the funeral.

John shifted, aware of the complete quiet, and glanced at Sherlock to see how he was coping. He was startled to find an anguished expression on his face. He reached out and laid his hand on Sherlock's arm. At the touch Sherlock started and looked down. When he saw John's hand he relaxed and gave his friend a weak smile.

"Thanks." He mouthed, tears sparkling in his blue eyes.

John nodded distractedly and was about to lean over and whisper something in Sherlock's ear when the director of the ceremony appeared from out of a door that had previously gone unnoticed. Clearing his throat he unnessacarily gestured for silence. "We are gathered here today to pay our respects to Mycroft Holmes. His family has asked me to make this funeral short without the normal religious 'rubbish' to quote his brother. So now I would like to invite Sherlock Holmes to say a few words." He stopped and stepped back from the podium

Slowly, hesitantly, his feet dragging, Sherlock made his way over. He cleared his throat and, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket unfolded it and laid it flat on top of the podium. "My brother was never there for me during my childhood, cold and aloof much like he was as an adult. The rivalry between us was always fierce and now looking back I can also see it was utterly pointless. For a while during the three years I was imprisoned and tortured by the Scientist I hated you for not coming to save me and then even more when I learned you were a Hunter. But I couldn't stay angry at you for long because you were my brother and deep down, despite everything, I loved you as such." Here Sherlock's voice broke but he blinked back the tears and continued. "I never got a chance to say goodbye or even thank you for everything you did for me. I didn't get a chance either to say I am so sorry for never realizing that, like me, you were a winged human but badly damaged and that instead of helping you I showed off and boasted about my own abilities. Please forgive me brother." He swallowed noisily and glanced towards John who had tears running down his face. He breathed in deeply. "As everyone present knows I am not often prone to sentiment but just this once I shall indulge myself."

Throughout Sherlock's speech John had marveled at the way Sherlock was managing to hold himself together but he could see that the carefully controlled facade was starting to crack. He waited, watching his friend's face carefully as Sherlock began to read out a poem in his deep voice which was now audibly beginning to shake.

"Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there; I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow, I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die." Once Sherlock had finished he stared blankly down at the ground, tears coursing down his cheeks and his shoulders shaking with the effort of not sobbing out loud.

Unable to stand by any longer John made his way to Sherlock's side and stood beside him to show his friend that he was there for him. He didn't say anything but John could sense he appreciated it. After Sherlock's speech the rest of the funeral passed quickly and once the coffin had disappeared behind the velvet curtains the few mourners there simply began to leave; Sherlock hadn't wanted to have a wake because he didn't want to remember the last image he had of his brother and his sickly, useless wings. It still turned his stomach to think of them. Sherlock sighed deeply and turned away from the front of the chapel, wishing to hide his tears from those who were still slowly making their way outside into the pouring rain. He remained there, staring numbly at the curtains, and didn't even notice when John left his side to go and talk to Lestrade.

Lestrade, despite being perfectly collected throughout the ceremony itself was now struggling to keep his emotions in check. Unlike most of the people who had attended he was genuinely upset at Mycroft's death. He glanced up when he heard John's footsteps giving the doctor a glimpse of the tears sparkling in his eyes. "Are you okay?" John asked softly, aware of the special comradeship which had existed between Lestrade and Mycroft.

Lestrade shook his head sadly and sniffed loudly. "I'm going to miss him despite how cold he could be sometimes." He paused and ran the back of his hand across his eyes. "Why didn't he tell he about his wings? I would have understood." He murmured, sounding a little dazed.

John's heart went out to him, unused to seeing Lestrade crying. "Why don't you come back to the flat with us? We could have a drink to Mycroft's memory and remember him." He suggested before realizing Lestrade wasn't really listening to him. He shook his head knowing he couldn't leave Lestrade on his own. In his current state he'd probably walk in front of a bus or something. Putting an arm around his shoulders John gently persuaded Lestrade to walk forward a few steps while also calling out to Sherlock. "Come on, lets go home."

Then together the three of them headed off in the direction of Baker Street. If any of them had glanced backwards as they left the cemetery they would have spotted a man watching them intently, his black bat-like wings draped over his head to protect him from the rain. An evil grin spread across his face. "Be seeing you soon Sherlock Holmes." He hissed before melting into the shadows and vanishing from sight.

**To be continued in The Winged Man's vow.**


End file.
